Walking in the Snow to Hear Gary Snyder
White “frass” fills the overpass air,
a new word from the Master,
living off the dew of pine needles,
4,000 feet above the Han deluge.
What a luxury to trudge
through the city snow
to Reed Island,
afloat above Crystal Springs,
and the Portland premise of rain.
All manner of disheveled diehards
hearing him first or heavy hardbacks later,
Firooz from Persia,
explaining how Ginsberg 35 years on the clock,
translated the Iranian Revolution
through the mercuric sieve of Blake.
He holds onto his invisible IWW card,
perpetual check-out privileges,
1951 Senior paper,
“He Who Hunted Birds in His Father's Village:
The Dimensions of a Haida Myth,”
alphabetically found in the round
upper library dome.
New Cold Mountain edition,
all calligraphic as his earlier--
famous even with the Party leaders--
not good at it, no patience,
split 3 foot rounds of beetle-kill
instead.
Hay for the Horses,
Oil,
Piute Creek,
sleep by a stream
to purify your ears,
like the Snow Mountain
Mayday first dew hike,
heard the spring song
singing.
[Posted with permission from the author.]